Friday's Child
by Marguerite1
Summary: Leo muses on interesting times, Josh, and the lack of good deli in D.C. Post-ep for "Evidence of Things Not Seen"


FRIDAY'S CHILD  
  
Classification: Post-ep vignette, Leo POV, J/D friendship  
Spoilers: "Evidence of Things Not Seen" and the Rosslyn arc.  
  
  
***  
  
I'd like to say that this is just another Friday night melting into just another  
Saturday morning at the White House. But it isn't. We've had to deal with both  
the Russian President and a homegrown lunatic in one evening, so it's been more  
interesting by far. In the "may you live in interesting times" sense of the word.  
  
Usually, I flourish in interesting times. But given that the events of this  
night broke up the first poker game we'd managed to organize in six months, I'm  
not flourishing so much as fuming. You have any idea how hard it is to find  
decent deli in this town?  
  
The poker game aside, we really did flourish here tonight. Chigorin's been  
appeased and our satellite photos will make it home safely. My daughter, my  
girlfriend, and even my ex-wife have phoned in to ask about the shooting. Zoey's  
asleep in the Residence and Will's in an airplane somewhere en route to  
Cheyenne. Ed and Larry have taken CJ out for a drink. For all her bluster about  
catlike reflexes, she's got a pretty bad case of the shakes and she keeps going  
on about making an egg stand on end while no one was watching her. Toby's...I  
don't know. Gone home, I suppose.  
  
Debbie Fiderer, who will be taking home more money tonight than she would in a  
month, is waiting with me in my office while Jed gets his blood pressure taken  
for the third time. She's no Delores Landingham, but she's a tough and dedicated  
woman who takes nothing off anybody. Like Margaret in that respect.  
  
Speaking of Margaret, she's nowhere to be seen although her purse and lunchbox -  
she actually carries a lunchbox to the White House every day, can you believe  
it? - are beside her desk. Debbie tilts her head toward Margaret's personal  
effects. "She went to the Mess."  
  
"Margaret? She never eats there. She won't even drink their coffee."  
  
"She went to get something for Donna."  
  
"Donna couldn't go to the Mess herself?"  
  
"Not while Josh is on the phone," Debbie replies, shooting me a look that  
clearly tells me I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed.  
  
Maybe I'm not, because the one thing I'm sure of is that I don't understand one  
word of this conversation. "She can't leave while Josh is on the phone?"  
  
Her expression changes from flinty to exasperated. "He's calling California."  
  
Of course, I think, rolling my eyes at my own stupidity. Someone should've  
checked in with Sam, who's still in his home state, nursing his wounds by  
working with the DNC out there. "He must've been out of his mind with worrying,"  
I comment.  
  
Debbie's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "I can't imagine he'd care all  
that much."  
  
"The hell? He wouldn't care all that much?" I have to struggle to keep my voice  
down, lest Jed come bursting in here with the sphygmomanometer hanging off his  
arm and his physician in tow.  
  
"I mean, he'd be concerned like a good citizen, but--"  
  
"Sam's more than a concerned citizen, Debbie."  
  
"I'm not talking about Sam, Leo. He's not the only guy Josh knows in  
California." Debbie doesn't say the name, but it hangs in the air between us.  
  
Stanley Keyworth.  
  
"Dammit." Next thing I know, I'm walking away.  
  
I pause in the hallway, letting my eyes adjust to the reduced light, replaying  
the scene from earlier when Toby and I told Josh about the shooter. He had just  
stood there. There was no change in his expression. He didn't ask a question or  
offer an opinion. The only sign that he'd heard us was when he clasped his  
clipboard to his chest like a shield.  
  
"It's over, Josh," Toby had said quietly but with so many layers to those three  
words. His gaze seemed focused on the clipboard, on Josh's fingers gripping it  
by the corners. Not meeting Josh's eyes, giving him a few relatively private  
moments to collect himself.  
  
None of that had registered. I can't believe it didn't occur to me before. Not  
until just now, until I remembered Toby's murmured words, did I stop to think  
that Josh's siren song might be playing somewhere deep in his mind.  
  
I stride quickly down the hall toward Josh's bullpen. Donna's not there and the  
whole area is dark. Are they done with the call? Or are they just somewhere  
else?  
  
The door to Josh's office opens and Margaret walks out. She sees me and  
immediately puts one finger over her lips. Ssh. Don't say anything.  
  
I nod at the door. Margaret leaves it ajar, just enough for me to be able to  
look in without being seen, and pats me on the shoulder in our long-standing,  
silent "I'm leaving" signal.  
  
Josh's office is dark except for the cold, greenish light from his computer. He  
has a cup of something in one hand and the phone in the other. He takes a sip,  
listening intently to whatever Stanley's telling him, then passes the cup to  
Donna and shades his eyes.  
  
She holds the cup in both hands, inhaling the steam before drinking from it.  
After a moment she offers it back to Josh, who holds his hand up, palm outward,  
and starts talking softly into the phone.  
  
Donna takes a few steps backward and turns slightly, so I get a look at her  
face. She's as rumpled and disheveled as Josh, and the sickly green light makes  
her look even more worried.  
  
It's a strange thing, this connection or whatever the hell you'd call it that  
goes on between them. Sometimes it's amusing, sometimes it annoys the crap out  
of me, but sometimes it's almost, I don't know, fierce.  
  
Leo, I need to talk to you about Josh, she had said more than once, two years  
ago, and I'd blown her off the first couple times until Josh came in and yelled  
at the President. The next time, I'd listened and connected Josh to the only  
shrink in the world tough enough to outfox him. To make him look inward -  
something neither Josh nor I particularly enjoy.  
  
His mind may be looking inward tonight, but no matter where Donna stands or what  
she does, his gaze stays on her. Looking outward.  
  
"It's kind of eerie, isn't it?"  
  
Toby's voice almost makes me jump out of my skin. I turn to him, scowling  
upwards as we step far enough away to have a quiet conversation that won't  
disturb Josh. "God almighty, Toby, don't do that."  
  
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I was looking for you. I wanted to…" He trailed off,  
looking away from me and shaking his head, one hand indicating Josh's office. "I  
didn't know where Donna was, and I wanted to make sure, you know, he was…"  
  
"He's talking to Stanley Keyworth," I fill in for him.  
  
Toby relaxes a little, even smiles for just a second or two. I suspect we share  
some serious guilt about not catching on last time until Josh had put his hand  
through a window. "Okay, then," he says, nodding. "Listen, I'm about to go home.  
I can walk you to your car, if you want."  
  
"Nah, I'm good." I wave Toby off and turn my attention back to Josh. He's got  
that look on his face, the one that he makes when he's said something funny and  
he wants the rest of us to know he's the smartest guy in the room. Donna's  
smiling, too, but she looks wary. Protective.  
  
Christ, but the guy was almost as big a mess this Christmas as he was two years  
ago. We'd ended up spending Christmas Eve getting the roof of the Church of the  
Nativity fixed, talking about Toby and his father, which Josh called his  
"Christmas Mitzvah." He'd kept pulling out his cell phone, turning it over in  
his hands, sometimes opening it, but never placing the call.  
  
If I'd asked, then he'd have said he just wanted to make sure she got in safely.  
He'd already blown his cover with me, though, so there wasn't any point. I just  
watched him pass the phone from hand to hand, slip it in his pocket and back out  
again as he paced the floor and barked instructions into the speakerphone on his  
desk.  
  
He's not pacing now, though. He's perfectly still, the phone pressed to his ear.  
Watching Donna and being watched by her.  
  
I'm being watched, too, this time by Jed, who walks up beside me and nudges me  
with his shoulder. "I was so worried about CJ and Toby and Will - I didn't even  
think about Josh," he whispered. "He's okay?"  
  
"He's fine, sir."  
  
Josh laughs, then covers the mouthpiece and repeats whatever it was to Donna,  
who snickers and says something back to Josh that makes him laugh even harder.  
Jed grins. "That's a great sound, Leo."  
  
"Yes, sir." I couldn't agree more.  
  
Josh seems to want the coffee but Donna won't give it to him, wagging a finger  
at him and probably telling him that he'd be up all night on a caffeine high.  
Josh leans back in the chair, glowering at her, but she's indifferent to his  
sulking.  
  
It's at moments like these that I know Jed misses Mrs. Landingham more than  
ever. I glance at him, and his eyes are far away, seeing another feisty spitfire  
telling her boss what's what.  
  
He shakes himself out of it. "I'm going to bed, Leo. Go home, would you?"  
  
"Yes, sir. In a minute."  
  
He shoots me a look, then turns around and heads for the Residence, head down,  
hands in his pockets, already lost in thought about what's next.  
  
What's next? I don't know. But Josh is folding up the cell phone and slipping it  
into his pocket while Donna fidgets with some stuff on his desk, so if I don't  
get lost right now then they'll bust me for, you know, giving a damn what  
happens to them.  
  
The first few steps ache a little in my bad hip, as they always do. I wait for  
just a moment, turn back just one more time. Josh is still sitting, his face  
turned up to Donna with such a look on his face - my God, the look on his face.  
He's got hold of her by the wrist and he's saying something that makes her lean  
over and put her arms awkwardly around his neck. Then she starts for the door  
and I have to move myself out into the lobby and pretend like I'm doing  
something important.  
  
Donna emerges a minute later, wrapped in a sweater, carrying a purse and one of  
those small canvas bags Mallory can't live without. She's startled to see me at  
first, then smiles. "Good night, Leo," she says brightly as she passes me.  
  
"Good night, Donna," I respond, returning her smile. She cocks her head to one  
side for a second as if wondering what the hell I'm so happy about, then she  
nods at me and murmurs something in greeting to the guard who's letting her out.  
  
Josh appears a few minutes later. Papers are sticking out here and there from  
his backpack - good God, do we ever give him anything classified, and if so,  
could we stop it right away? He looks tired but calm, and his hands hang loosely  
at his sides. "Hey, Leo, sorry about the game."  
  
"Ah, it's not a problem. We'll try again next Friday."  
  
"Okay." He hoists his backpack further up and we head for the door together. Out  
the window we see Donna saying good night to the guards at the gate. She turns  
around, spots us, and gives us a little wave of the hand before heading off into  
the night.  
  
"Josh?" Josh turns around, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How're you  
feeling?"  
  
He shifts his weight again. "I…uh…I talked to Stanley Keyworth tonight."  
  
"I thought you might," I say, trying to sound nonchalant.  
  
Josh swallows and looks away. "I didn't have an episode. For a minute I thought  
I would, but it didn't come. And that guy, Joe Quincy? He told me something."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
His eyes slide shut as if he's reading the words. He's a terrible speaker. "I  
made a joke about the music thing, and he said that most people don't believe  
the story and the people I'd like, don't care."  
  
"Well, God knows I don't care."  
  
Josh's face lights up as he starts to laugh. "Yeah, Leo, every day I can tell  
how much you don't care." He puts his hand on the doorknob but I stop him.  
  
I wave a hand at the exit, at the gate. "She's a good girl, Josh."  
  
He blinks at me for a second, his mouth slightly open. "I…wouldn't argue, but on  
the other hand I wouldn't call her that if she had a sharp, blunt, or heavy  
object nearby."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," I say, chuckling. "I said 'girl' to Jordan once and I'm lucky to  
still be alive."  
  
Josh doesn't say anything, but there's that smile again, and the old sparkle in  
his eyes that reminds me so much of his father that it hurts. Just as I come to  
grips with it, Josh says, "Good night, Leo," and takes off.  
  
So it's just me tonight, headed back to the office, where I survey the remnants  
of our attempt at a poker night. Someone's removed the bottles and cups and put  
foil over the leftover food, but there's something about the smell of roast beef  
and beer and the felt lining of the poker chip box that makes me feel as if the  
party's still going on.  
  
"She was born on a Friday."  
  
Josh is leaning into my office, one hand on each side of the door jamb. I put my  
hand on my chest. "Between you and Toby, how I've managed to avoid a heart  
attack is just--"  
  
"Donna was born on a Friday. 'Friday's child is loving and giving,' or so she's  
always telling me," he says, continuing his non-sequitur despite the death glare  
I'm shooting at him.  
  
"Be that as it may, Josh, I was born on a Saturday and I have to work for a  
living, so I'm…what the hell are you doing back here, anyway?"  
  
He shrugs and hangs his head. "Is there any roast beef left?"  
  
Like glass, this guy. Well, I'm going to make him work for it. "Depends on  
whether you've read the report from Treasury."  
  
"It's in here…somewhere." Josh twists around as if he could get into his  
backpack by sheer force of will. "I've read it, so I get roast beef. And rye  
bread. And a beer."  
  
So much for working quietly. Ah, but this is better, anyway. "What day were you  
born on?" I ask as we uncover the food and find a beer for him and a soda for  
me.  
  
"I was…Tuesday."  
  
"'Full of grace?' Seriously, Josh, your mom should get her money back."  
  
One side of his mouth curls upward. "Well, I'm sure it was Wednesday, somewhere,  
when I was born," he quips.  
  
We're going to be here for a couple hours at least, so we take off our jackets,  
loosen our ties, pull out a report we're not really going to talk about anyway,  
and raise glasses to a good girl - woman, I hear Mallory, Jordan, Abbey, and  
Margaret correct me all in unison. To a good woman, then, who was born on a  
Friday that melted into a Saturday, born to flourish in interesting times.  
  
***   
END   
***  
  
Many thanks to Ryo for LiveBeta and to all the friends who sharpened their pointy  
sticks. :)  
  
Feedback would make a hot summer day bearable - Marguerite@operamail.com.  
Back to West Wing.  
  



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